


so sweet the morning dew

by transvav



Category: Mianite - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Realm of Mianite, heads up. jordan's dead! he's just dead in this., set after the end of s1, the s2 crew is IN the s1 realm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: when they'd first arrived in the realm, they'd thought their mission was clear- revive the fallen chaos god.but some things get... complicated.
Relationships: Jordan Maron & Lady Ianite
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	so sweet the morning dew

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been sitting in my drive since august bc i thought i would go further with it but i just can't bring my brain to finish it up, so you know.

Spark worried for this version of Ianite.

They all did, of course, but he would always worry for her more than anyone, even if this was not his wife‒ and it was so evident that this was not his wife that it ached. Her balance had a feeling of patience to it that Spark didn’t quite match or understand. But that wasn’t what worried him, no‒ what worried him was the overwhelming sadness and longing he felt when he first landed, the horrifying drag of sorrow deep in his gut. She had lost something, and the world could _feel_ it, and the others, therefore, felt it too.

But she was also the strongest presence any of them could feel at all.

They’d known, coming here, that the Dianite of this realm was dead. What they _hadn’t_ expected was the lack of response to Jeriah’s prayers‒ a near silence, in fact. The only one who had approached him was the priest, tired and drained, and apologetic.

“He’s been silent for some time,” this Declan said, but shrugged when asked why. “It’s not my place to tell the tale. Go to Ianarea, when you’re ready.”

It took them a bit to set up properly. This land still held the remnants of the previous heroes‒ empty houses, untouched, some messy, some clean, lying in wait for the keepers to return, dust settled on the countertops, cobwebs in the corners. The little hut of birch and glass upon the mountaintop, the view over the ocean. It held that sense of magic that felt the most comfortable, so it was there Spark settled. There were broken remnants of what looked to be carved faces in many of the mountains‒ he wondered, briefly, if they had crumbled when the previous heroes had disappeared, and tried not to linger on the idea.

The magic here was wild and untouched, and technology was limited. This realm, they found, was separated from the rest of it’s world by something sinister, something dangerous‒ the island they landed on, especially, where the first heroes had appropriately settled. Weaponry was rough to fine tune, and Spark struggled with the lack of flight, for a time, worse than the others did. At the very least, he was able to crudely reshape a sword light enough that he can work with it more easily. He missed his rapiers.

...he missed his wife.

He missed the feeling of the connection to her not being overwhelmed by such grief‒ and that was selfish of him, he knew, but he _worried_ , did nothing but worry, now, for the version of the goddess he had yet to meet. They needed to get to Ianarea, and fast, he resolved to himself. If not all of them together, then at the very least, he’d figure it out himself. Luckily, when he brings it up to the others, they were all prepared anyway.

There are a couple of pirates at the docks, woven in the aura of the goddess. One of them‒ a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, with dark hair‒ turned towards them as they approached, her gaze sharp and cold, until she saw Spark.

Something in her face _changed_ , when he stepped forward, an uncertainty, a horror, a shock. She reached and gripped onto the other’s sleeve, wrapping her fingers tightly into the fabric of the jacket as she swallowed, scanning Spark up and down with a few flicks of her gaze. There was _grief_ , in that expression, mixed with the haunting look of someone having seen a ghost.

But it changed, when the other man turned around and jolted as well. He seemed to blink himself out of it, whatever it was, gently prying the woman’s grasp away and squeezing her hand.

_It’s not him,_ he read on the ginger’s lips, and watched as the woman brought a hand to her face and released a shuddering, devastated breath.

They watch from afar, respectfully. Spark’s heart sunk at the sight of it all.

Jeriah was the one that eventually took a few steps forward, the blood mage adjusting the collar of his coat and clearing his throat to fully catch their attention. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said steadily, and Spark caught the roll of Mot’s eyes in the corner of his own sight. “But we were hoping you could take us to‒”

“We know where ye wants t' go,” the ginger said. “Me name's Redbeard. Me sister here, Capsize, be th' cap'n o' th' ship we'll be takin’ there.”

“You can’t just‒ I don’t know, give us a map?” Jeriah asked. Spark almost stopped him, but the question is already out of the man’s mouth before he can, and he sighed at his old friend’s ignorance.

“I be sorry, but no,” Capsize interjected sharply. She wiped away the lingering wetness beneath her eyes and scanned the group again, pointedly avoiding looking to Spark. “Th' land o' our Goddess be in a different realm, 'n be impossible t' get t' without a connection t' her.”

“The admiral has‒”

And at that point, Spark _did_ cut Jeriah off, with a quiet cough into his fist‒ the mage looked back confused, but all the admiral did was tilt his head just so, indicating he was about to overstep his bounds. His friend got the message, instead pressing his mouth into a thin line and clearing his throat, tucking his hands behind his back again in deference as he stepped back. Spark, Mot and Alyssa stepped forward to where he is, closer to the dock’s entrance, and Mot was the one that nodded in finality.

“We know the risks,” he said, “and we’re aptly prepared. We need to go see her.”

“...very well,” Redbeard answered after a moment of pause. Capsize made her way onto the ship, and Redbeard stepped to the side, gesturing for them to follow her. “I wish ye th' best in gettin' her audience, though. She's been mighty selective about who she sees.”

The sentence left a heavy feeling in Spark’s stomach. What had happened, he wondered, to the lady of balance here? What troubles had she been through, what had she suffered? What had caused her to so completely lock herself away from the world when it is so desperately in need of repair‒ in need of balance, of her guidance? And where, Spark wondered, is her champion to help her‒ had she sent them off with the other heroes so simply? Had they disappeared without thought in her time of obvious need?

The pull towards the goddess got stronger when they passed through the portal, and Spark felt his breath taken away when his vision cleared.

“Oh,” Alyssa breathed beside him. “ _Oh_.”

Ianarea was gorgeous, despite the silence that surrounded it, the dread of what feels like abandonment. When the ship pulled to a stop, they dropped down to the ground gently‒ Capsize and Redbeard stayed, turning away when Mot looked up at them questioningly, and they all came to the realization that this is a meeting they must try to make alone. Spark swallowed and turned back to the empty city, searching for spirits of the lost that he expected to flit between the buildings. The temple itself towered above in the middle of the paths, a centerpiece of the city, the heart and soul of it all. It was heart wrenching, he thought, to see something so beautiful so... forgotten.

They passed what looked like an arena‒ whatever fight occurred had not been cleaned up in years. There were craters in the walls and floor, shattered glass and stone and marble around it all. Old blood stains in certain places, broken arrows abandoned on the ground, stuck into the walls. A piece of armor was chipped and thrown to the side‒ a chestplate, it looked like, diamond, the enchantments long since faded, the runes scratched out by a knife. And just to the side, thrown carelessly away, was a sword with blood still rusted onto the diamond blade, a red sash tied to it’s hilt. Mot winced at the sight of it‒ winced mostly, he murmured, at the magic.

“Something bad happened here,” he whispered. “I think this is where their Dianite...”

He didn’t continue. They moved on.

The gate was open, four keys left in their positions, but still, there was no one to greet them, no one to walk them through, to introduce them, to announce them. Spark followed his instinct, now, and the others followed closely behind. No one but him seemed to notice the ghosts that watched from the corners of the halls, no one but him seemed to hear the soft cries of the people of the end, the followers of balance. _What happened here_ , he thought, and tried to ignore the sound of the endermen teleporting very, very closely. Instead, he continued to tug on the little thread of magic he knew so well and yet did not know at all, and it lead the four of them where they need to be.

And there, they found her.

Spark shuddered, ever so slightly, when she turned to face them, because‒

The Ianite of this realm was so _different_. Not just in aura and magic, anymore, no, it was in her _face_ , the way she stood, the way she moved. Her eyes were rounder, softer, more _tired_ , more wise, and the color reminded him not of violets, but of orchids. Instead of the casual blouse and loose pants, she wore a long, silken dress that shifted with every movement, dark with magic, almost galactic clouds blossoming along the fabric. Her circlet sat perfectly atop her head, the jewel in the center gleaming with magic, and her hair reminded him of silk in water, a darker shade than he’s used to, floating gently in the air, trailing slowly as she went.

But she was pale, and weak, he could tell. Her skin was washed out, her face pallid save for the blossoming of red that served as a blush, hiding star-like freckles from view. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were teartracks staining her cheeks, a shake in her hands as she quickly wiped them away. He could see, now, why she was so selective about who she saw, why she was tucked away so deep in her own dimension. Something had torn her to pieces, left her weak, so devastatingly that she was still _healing_.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing the goddess said to the mortals. “You shouldn’t have been here, you shouldn’t have seen me like this.

“Where did your champion go?” was the first thing Spark asked, cold and sharp. He wanted to place blame on the person he’d never met. Wanted someone to be _mad_ at, and whoever was supposed to be _protecting her_ was the first person who comes to mind.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her face dropped immediately, fresh tears welling in her eyes, and she pressed the heels of her palms into them as she choked, briefly, on her own breath. Mot and Jeriah straightened behind him, suddenly alarmed, but Spark _felt_ the heartbreak the second it happened, like he’d reopened a fresh wound and tore it apart with five little words, the simplest question he could imagine. The world shuddered with her grief, and Spark immediately took a few steps forward, hand to his heart.

“My apologies,” he said with heavy sincerity, regret in every word. “I didn’t know...”

She sniffed, and pulled her hands away trying to regain some composure. Ianite gave them all a shaky smile and wrung her hands together, working at the muscles in her palms as she bit her lip and met his eyes through his glasses.

“No, Admiral,” she said gently, full of forgiveness. “It’s quite alright. It’s been a few years, you’d think... you’d think I’d be more put together about it, wouldn’t you?”

“About... what?” Mot asked quietly, and Ianite breathed slow and deep, visibly steeling herself..

“You’re curious about what happened to this place,” she said instead of answering him. “I know every detail, and I can tell you what happened. I know you were sent here to fix it.”

“Yes,” Jeriah assured, but stiffened when her gaze turned to him, suddenly cold. The heel turn in emotion shocked all of them‒ but it was necessary, Spark thought, so she can let them help.

“It won’t be easy,” she warned.

“It never is,” Spark assented.

“Then come with me,” Ianite said. She began to lead them behind the throne, down some stairs hidden by a heavy curtain, lit only by the sporadic end rods placed on the ceiling. “It was years ago that darkness made itself more known in our realm‒ up until a certain point, it had simply been lying in wait, doing very little against my brothers and I’s influence over the land. I was foolish to ignore it, and foolish to think it was doing anything but biding it’s time. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late‒ it approached my brothers and I individually, when it knew we wouldn’t stand up openly for one another. It offered Dianite power beyond his belief, and followers who would do anything he asked. We hadn’t warned him not to make deals, and he was corrupted first.

“It went after Mianite next, and offered him nothing‒ instead it told him that if he didn’t comply, he would never see his champion again. He was already devastated by the loss of that first champion‒ he had loved him so dearly and it had cost him so much when the poor dear had disappeared. Discovering that it was the darkness who had stolen him away was both a relief and a nightmare, to him, and so, desperate to save him, Mianite agreed to keep silent.”

“And you?” Mot asked, glancing briefly through one of the windows they passed. It looked almost like a bedroom of some type, or at the very least, a study.

“I...” and for a moment, she faltered, slowing her pace as they passed another room‒ this one had runes carved into the heavy iron door, and the glass on the window was darkened. She placed her open palm against the window, fingers spread, and it was only then that Spark noticed the creeping purple magic that was changing her skin.

He’d seen it once before on his own wife, in one of her greatest moments of distress, back before they’d married, back before they’d ever even loved one another in that way‒ he’d nearly died. That had been her greatest fear, and the push they’d both needed to openly admit what was between them was perhaps more than just champion and goddess. But his wife’s corruption had never been more than skin deep‒ this Ianite, he realized, was far more lost in the ever-growing taint of her own grief.

“It approached me in my weakest point. Dianite’s power was growing, chaos was too quickly overpowering order‒ it was a mess. I was so thrown off, I was disoriented. The only hint of balance I could find besides my followers was a distant champion that had yet to arrive. I thought I could hold out until he arrived, I thought I had the time to wait for him. I told the darkness I wasn’t interested. I told it _no_.”

The taint spread a little further up her arm as she slowly dropped her hand from the glass.

“So my brothers locked me away, and then the darkness wiped out anything that gave me power. My followers, my defenders, the people in this city. My memory and purpose was lost to the world, and with it, I weakened, trapped in a cage deep within chaos’ dimension. All I could do was _wait_. And hope that my champion would come soon to save me, to save us all.”

“So he succeeded, then?”

“...yes,” she whispered after a long hesitation. “Yes, he‒ he did free me.”

“But Dianite’s dead,” Mot pointed out quietly. “And Mianite, as far as I can tell, is still corrupted, isn’t he? So your champion still fai‒”

“ _Don’t,_ ” she choked. “Please, don’t, he did‒ he did all he could with what he was given, with the deal he made. He did what he could.”

“He made a deal?” Spark asked. “What deal, what happened?”

“He’s _young_ ,” Ianite told them. “He’s so, so young, and so _new_ to the idea of gods and champions‒ he’d come here washed ashore after a shipwreck, with little to his mind except his name and his faith. He did what he could but was so overwhelmed by it all, so confused, so afraid for me. It was just a small mistake. He’d made deals with them both before. It was just another deal, and he‒ they tricked him, with the smaller offers. How was he meant to know‒ how could he have foreseen, he didn’t have my sight, my guidance, oh, _Jordan_ ‒”

Her lip quivered, and fresh tears began rolling down her cheeks. Alyssa was the one who stepped closer, offering a small piece of cloth for a tissue, and the goddess managed to smile, taking it carefully with a nod of thanks.

“Dianite tricked him,” she managed, voice wobbling. “He promised my boy my safety in exchange for his help‒ I don’t remember the phrasing but. It was a cruel thing he did, and not something Dia would have done ever before‒ the darkness was such a part of his choices and mind, then, and changed him, influenced him. Dianite turned my champion into nothing more than a housecat, small and unnoticeably _normal_ , and then he took his place. And _lied_ , to all the other heroes, pretended to be so loyal, so faithful to me and me alone, while my champion spent longer and longer in the cat’s form, trapped with me in my cage for quite some time.

“Eventually, the final fight came, and Dianite allowed the heroes to approach him to reclaim my heart‒ and then switched places with my boy. The captain was back in his own body, but the heroes believed they were still fighting the god. It was only just barely that he lived, when the god revealed the truth just before the blade struck the captain down. He was given back to me, once again in the form of the cat, and they took my heart to the cage where he and I both were. I didn’t ask how they knew to find it. I was too distraught, too out of it, too focused on making sure he liv‒ making sure he survi‒ I... just was glad for his company again, despite the dreadful circumstances.”

A terrible feeling settled over Spark as they approached the last room in the hall, with two heavy double doors, intricately decorated. It looked so out of place here, polished dark oak with hand carved detailing on the panels, little ender eyes over the frame. It almost reminded him of the door for a child’s room. Her hand hesitated over the shining gold handle, head bowing low.

“He used the last of his strength to give my heart back to me,” she breathed, so quietly and so _heartbroken_ , and Spark did not want to hear what came next. “And I failed my champion, and watched him die in my arms.”

“...what’s in the room, Lady Ianite?” Jeriah eventually asked for all of them, and she laughed, broken and quiet through her tears.

“Is it wrong of me?” she sobbed softly. “To‒ to hope he has a second chance?”

“Of course not,” Mot said, sharp and quick. Spark watched him as he stepped forward, the hybrid’s eyes flashing with sudden anger and the look of _knowing_. “There’s always a second chance‒ you say he was your champion? Then he has another chance, as long as you can find the power to help him.”

Ianite looked to him, then, silent and steady, breath heavy in her chest. And then she pushed open the door.

The room was almost identical to what he expected. It had marbled quartz floors and walls, handwoven tapestries and beautifully dyed violet banners and curtains. The bedframe was made of bookshelves, full to the brim, and another stack sat upon a dark oak desk to the side, a few of them open, one of them in particular still waiting for the quill to hit the page. This was the room of a young man‒ perhaps about fifteen, sixteen, he thought. And on the bed itself was a body.

The first thing that fully registered in his own mind was that it looked like _him_.

The boy on the bed couldn’t be any older than twenty five. His skin was pale, veins prominent and stark even in the low light, even though the blood in them wasn’t moving at all. His hair was dark and curled and probably around chin length, fanned out around his face‒ if Spark didn’t know better, he would’ve believed him to be sleeping, he looked so peaceful. But there was no rise or fall to his chest, no thrum of life beneath his eyelids, no color in his skin except a light dusting of violet, and a singular bright red line across one side of his face. Spark knew what a sword mark looked like, and he knew the sting of a fire enchanted blade. He suddenly remembered the diamond sword back in the arena, tossed aside, blood still staining it. Only now did he realize‒ that hadn’t been Dianite’s blood, had it.

Atop the bedposts sit four miniature end crystals, alight with magic. When Spark focused, he could make out the light dusting of pale white and lavender runes that shimmer across his skin, just _barely_ there‒ he caught a few words of the galactic. Binding, unbreaking, protection. Mending. A few versions of healing are there, too, but other than that, the rest of it was nothing he could understand. As hard as his wife had tried to teach him, galactic had not come easily to him as he’d wished.

“You’re keeping him in stasis,” he murmured, hovering his hand a few inches above the boy’s face, watching the magic shift gently in response. “So he doesn’t decay. You have plans of bringing him back.”

“Yes,” Ianite said. “But I... don’t know how, not without draining myself, and not without consequences.”

“There are consequences to everything,” Mot said, close to the door. Her gaze went to him, briefly, and none of them missed the way she seemed to linger on the patches of green across his face. She looked pained for another long moment before Mot shifted awkwardly, his hand going up to his neck and tracing where the hybrisim ended. “It won’t be easy for him, if it ends up that way. But if there’s nothing else...”

“I spent so long with him,” she whispered, and moved closer to the boy on the bed, brushing his hair away from his face where the magic had shifted it. “So long just... waiting for things to be sorted out. Waiting for my brothers to find courage, to break from the grip darkness had on them. Waiting to hold the captain in my arms without him being so _small_ , so fragile, without us being trapped. I spent so long in that cage with him, and I never... he never _knew_.”

“He was more than your champion, wasn’t he?” Spark realized, because he knew this part. He knew the ache he felt from the moment he’d set foot in this realm, and hadn’t wanted to say it. It’d felt too much like the nightmares he’d had on his own time, when he was away from his wife. When he was away from his son and daughter. The nightmares where his children were taken from him, lost to time, lost to fights, lost to mortality. She didn’t answer, instead collapsing to the floor at the bedside in quiet sobs. The others stepped forward in shock, eyes wide, worried, but Spark understood now more than anything. “He was your son.”

“Please,” she whispered between shaking breaths. “Please, help me‒ help me get him back.”

**Author's Note:**

> the implication is that jordan is eventually revived as an enderman hybrid and also he's shorter somehow
> 
> leaving a comment would be. pretty poggers idk just a suggestion....
> 
> my [tumblr](http://transandor.tumblr.com)  
> 


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